The Magic of Ignorance
by Imane Nikko
Summary: Hermione accepts an invitation to the Yule Ball, but it isn't from who she thinks.
1. 1 The Magic of Ignorance

Draco Malfoy was irritated.

Not with himself, mind you – partly with his father, partly with Pansy Parkinson, but primarily with his whole sodding life. Most of all, he was tired of being told what he could and could not do.

What was the point of being better than everyone else, after all, if it didn't entitle him to do as he pleased?

The restrictions first really began to chafe at the Quidditch World Cup. His father took advantage of a quiet moment to reprimand him for bragging about their place in the Minister's box to the Weasleys. "You must not look for approval from people who should be beneath your notice," Lucius chided. "Superiority cannot be claimed; it must be embodied."

Draco nodded his head, because he knew very well what would happen when they returned home if he did not. But inside, he was rebellious. What did it matter what he said to that pathetic tribe of red-headed idiots?

His father's words stuck with him, though, on his return to Hogwarts. He had to show Harry Potter and the Weasleys and all the others that there were no heights to which he could not aspire. Nothing was too good for him to reach out his hand and take it. He would show them, but it had to be the right gesture: something that would prove that he could be, and have, anything he wanted.

Several months into term, Draco still had not come up with the proper embodiment of his natural superiority. He had, in point of fact, been subjected to a variety of humiliations: squeezing Bubotuber pus, throwing frog innards to a seething pile of Blast-Ended Skrewts, and the final indignity, his brief transformation into a rodent. Once that crippled git Moody finally left him with Snape, his Head of House excused him from detention and sent him back to the Slytherin dormitory. He settled into a soft leather chair, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, and began speculating aloud as to what revenge he should take on the Professor. His aching, bruised spine and hands did not improve his temper.

"I'll have him removed from his position," Draco said. "I'll call Father and he'll be gone by next week."

But that was somehow not good enough. It couldn't be his father who brought Moody down. If Draco was going to prove his own worth, he would have to take matters into his own hands.

"Or I could put a magnetizing hex on that metal foot of his. And a curse on his fake eye that rolls it straight back into his bloody head."

And that was when Pansy dropped the other shoe.

"You can't do that, Draco. He was an Auror, and you're only a fourth-year. You'd have a better chance of getting a date with Hermione Granger than catching him unawares."

Bloody Pansy – even she didn't believe in him. Still worse, he had a terrible feeling that she was right. Right about Moody, and damn it all, right about that Mudblood, too. Not that he wanted a date with Granger, Merlin forbid. But if he did... if he did, he was quite sure she would laugh him out of the room. It was absolutely intolerable.

Pansy's offhand comment continued to rankle. What right did that frizzy-haired upstart have to reject him? (Draco could imagine the rejection clearly enough that he didn't actually have to experience it to be sure it would take place.) He had saved her little Muggle-born skin at the Quidditch World Cup when he told her to hide from the oncoming Death Eaters. (This was another thing he had failed to mention to his father.)

And what were her thanks for that good turn? Showing him up in Care of Magical Creatures, even though he knew very well that she thought he was right about the bloody Skrewts. Laughing about the ferret incident, which despite a month of concentrated effort he had still failed to wipe from his memory. After the first nightmare involving a fluffy white tail and a twitching, bewhiskered snout, Draco had seriously considered Obliviating himself. But that was dangerous, and asking someone else to do it would just call attention to the whole thing. Literal nightmares being preferable to the social kind, Draco abandoned his sleeping self to its fate (and to its fleas).

He couldn't quite abandon his resentment of Granger, however. It became something of a habit, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He'd cast baleful glances at the Gryffindor table, talking with those insufferable friends of hers, and wonder how she could tolerate them. She was clearly intelligent despite her inferior blood, unlike the other two. She was also eating abnormally quickly again. He'd noticed recently that she'd been leaving supper as fast as she could, which was annoying because then she was no longer there to be glanced at surreptitiously. Draco knew the signs. She'd be out of her seat in another two or three minutes. But where was she going, leaving her friends every night? It wasn't like her. It didn't occur to Draco that it was odd how well he already knew her character, but this gap in his understanding itched at him. Curiosity overtook him, and he seized his chance. It wouldn't do to leave after her – someone might catch on, so he had to go first. He made a disgusted face and pushed his plate away.

"I didn't think it was possible for the standards at Hogwarts to slip any further, but I continue to be surprised," he said, sneering at the perfectly acceptable meal. "I can't stomach another night of this. Perhaps I'll nip up to the owlery and write Mother; she'll get one of the elves to bring me something proper from home."

Draco stood, keeping the disgusted look on his face, and stalked out of the Great Hall. Actually, he was quite pleased with himself. This hastily-made plan ensured that Crabbe and Goyle would not be following him, since that would mean giving up their suppers. It was, quite frankly, genius. Once clear of the Hall, he found an alcove with a view of the door and put up his hood to keep his hair from attracting any attention. She'd be out any minute.

Hermione couldn't finish her supper fast enough. The history of house-elves was long, and complicated, and utterly vexing. But before she could get the organization off the ground, she had to have her facts in order. It was pleasant, in a way, to have a project outside of school work, something to occupy her when the boys were fixated on Quidditch or paying the price for their inevitable procrastination on lessons. She'd learned the hard way that if she were in the room, they'd be bothering her for help. Better to let them flounder on their own, and learn the results of putting things off.

Hermione was aware that she would be going up against centuries of wizarding tradition with this project. But it was so desperately, horribly, transparently unfair that the magical world was carried on the backs of innocent slaves. With all the resources at their command, wizards still hadn't found a replacement for slavery? Intolerable. Muggles had done it, hadn't they? Hermione considered it her responsibility as a Muggle-born witch to be a bridge between the two cultures, and what better way than bringing to light an area in which Muggles were actually further advanced? Hitching her book bag on her shoulder, she hurried to the library, eager to continue her research, absorbed in her thoughts, and totally unaware of Draco Malfoy following discreetly behind her.

Of course the silly swot was heading for the library. How could he have thought anything different? She was embarrassingly predictable. Draco should have just gone there to wait without subjecting himself to this ridiculous cloak-and-wand routine. He dropped farther behind, the better to remain unobserved, removing his hood and adopting his usual casual saunter. She wouldn't notice him in her distracted state anyway, and he could easily make up an errand in the library if anyone who mattered noticed him. When he entered the library, it was as empty as would be expected, given the hour. Everyone else was still at supper. He noted the flare of light in the section she'd chosen and took a roundabout way through the bookshelves to get a look at what she was doing.

Magical Creatures? What in Merlin's name was she doing in there? That imbecile Hagrid certainly hadn't assigned them anything that would require this kind of research. Or research at all, actually. Draco pictured the Blast-Ended Skrewts and shuddered. Skrewts. It takes a certain horrid genius to be useless, disgusting _and_ dangerous. Anyway, that class was an almost complete waste of time, except that it afforded him an opportunity to irritate Pothead and Weaselby and spar with Granger. Draco settled down at a table one bookshelf removed from Granger's, where he'd be able to hear her moving, and began to search for a book that could reasonably have brought him here. This had the dual purpose of allowing him to peer through the shelf at her. She was bent over a giant book, running her finger down the margin and muttering to herself. From time to time, she would make an outraged sound and write something fiercely with her quill. She was pressing too hard; there was no way she could be writing properly. (Draco preferred a Gothic Rotunda, himself. It had a pleasant quality, and the letters took up a bit of extra space, meaning assignments could be finished more quickly.) Using that kind of pressure, Granger couldn't have any grace in her hand at all. No varied line weight – in fact, she seemed in danger of tearing the parchment. Draco shook his head. Muggles were absolute savages, sending their children off to school without even the most basic study skills.

Draco sat down and opened his book. _Charming Charms_, it was called, and while perhaps a bit advanced for him, it was actually somewhat interesting. He turned randomly to the chapter on elemental charms, and settled down to read about Morphincendius, which allowed the caster to give a flame a shape. This struck Draco as less "charming" than "pointless," but it would perhaps make a good prank if he could master it. He was saying the incantation under his breath and practicing wand movements when an odd sound from behind the bookshelf caught his attention. Kind of a triple "thunk" sound. What on earth was the daft girl up to? He returned to the shelf and peered through, finding Granger standing next to a machine with a lever of some kind on it. She was putting slips of paper, then metal circles onto it (thunk), then pressing the lever down (thunk) and dropping the resulting object into a box (thunk). He watched for some time, bewildered by how she'd gotten the machine in the first place, and why she hadn't enchanted it to do the work for her in the second. After a while she pushed that shrubbery she called hair out of her face, cast a quick look around the empty library (Draco ducked down as her eye slid past his peep hole) and walked in the direction of the library door. She hadn't taken any of her things, so she must be looking for another book or perhaps running to the loo. Draco stuck his head out from behind the shelf to confirm that she was actually leaving the library, then slid around to take a look at what she'd been doing.

Unbelievable. Hermione Granger had clearly gone mental. Draco bent over what she had been writing, which appeared to be stories of exceptionally loyal house-elves who had sacrificed themselves for their families, mixed with cautionary tales of elves who had failed in their duties for one reason or another and been justly punished. It was clear, however, that she'd missed the point of the stories entirely. Everything about her writing, including the writing itself (she had a terrible hand, just as Draco had suspected) bespoke outrage. And what was this? Draco reached into the box she'd been dropping the round things in and discovered that they were badges imprinted with four letters. "S.P.E.W."? He scanned the sheet and discovered that this stood for "Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare." Beneath these words was an outline for a manifesto, written in classical Granger swotty style, opining that house-elves were enslaved and abused. Utterly barmy. She had the whole concept backwards, and to top it all off the design of the badges was horrible. Just plain block letters on a solid color background. Experimentally he tapped one with his wand, but it remained resolutely drab.

Draco shook his head. "Elfish welfare" was entirely predicated on being useful to their masters. That's what the elves wanted, and that's what wizards wanted of them. Any child could tell you that. How could the girl be so bloody clever in lessons, and so utterly thick when it came to everything else? It was absurd, another failure of this ridiculous school, that "Muggle Studies" was a requirement while Muggle-borns were allowed to run around like ignorant savages.

A slight scuffing noise in the hallway saved him. Draco jerked up and away from the table, scurrying back behind his shelf, the badge he'd been holding still in his hand. Granger returned to her table and finished her thunk-thunk-thunking, filling her box with her pathetic failures of design. (Though now that Draco thought about it, it was comforting in a way to find something she wasn't good at.) Draco ignored her, keeping his head bent to his book, picturing flames that turned into snakes and struck at passing first-years. Yes, this charm had definite appeal. It would be tricky to make it respond to the right people, he couldn't have the torches jumping out at professors or any of the upperclassmen, but he was confident he'd be able to work it out. When Granger had finally packed up her project and left the library, Draco took the book and walked back toward the dungeons. On an impulse he didn't care to examine too closely, he tucked the S.P.E.W. badge into his pocket.


	2. 2 Draco Decides

Draco continued to keep an eye on Granger for the next couple of weeks. She showed no signs of insanity, or at least no more than usual; she still spent her time with Goggle Eyes and the Ginger Dimwit and turned her assignments in early. He hadn't heard anything more of S.P.E.W. or seen any of the badges, even on Gryffindors. Perhaps they had more sense than he thought. It gnawed at him, though. Not the plight of the elves by any means, he knew better than that. No, not the elves, but Granger herself. She was so full of life and confidence. She didn't seem to wait for permission, much less approval, before settling on a course of action. It was like the inverse of his own life. He was proud of his heritage, the long and glorious history of wizard kind, but he had been raised with such clear expectations that he'd known what was 'possible' before he'd been able to spell the word. Granger was a bumbling fool in some ways, but she was free. She broke rules without even knowing they existed; no one could tell her what to do. He wondered how the world appeared to her, wide open, all the impermeable boundaries erased by the simple magic of ignorance.

Hogwarts was a whirlpool of anticipation and rumors when the announcement finally went up about the other schools' arrival for the Triwizard Tournament. Draco was privately relieved that he would not be allowed to enter, though of course he was careful to say scornful things about the new age rule when the older Slytherins were in earshot. He would have had to put in his name had he been allowed to – he never would have heard the end of it from either his father or his friends had he not – but it would have been for the sake of appearances. While Draco was still focused on finding a way to distinguish himself, he preferred a certain victory. Or at the very least a stage where failure did not lead to humiliation, to say nothing of death.

At last the day came, and the representatives from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang made their appearance. Draco was thrilled to see that Viktor Krum was among the Durmstrang students and amused when he saw how the other students looked at him as he made his way into the Great Hall. Weasley blushed like a twelve-year-old girl, the stupid git. It was with great pleasure that Draco saw Krum take his place at the Slytherin table, and he leaned across immediately to make a welcoming remark. This was promising, indeed. A world-class Quidditch player would make an excellent contact. Draco even played the same position. Quidditch was over for the season, so the Speccy Wonder wouldn't have a chance to show off as he always did, leaving the field open for Draco to play up his and Krum's shared interests. A friendship with the famous boy could only grant him reflected glory, but Draco still wasn't about to turn his nose up at the chance.

The next evening at supper, Draco waited for Krum to be selected as a champion. There was no doubt in his mind it would be Krum. The boy was already famous, and in Draco's experience, once you had a bit the rest just flowed after naturally, like water droplets running together on a glass. Look at Potter. One little bit of luck as a child, dodging the Dark Lord's curse through no talent of his own, and the result might as well have been a permanent dose of Felix Felicis. No use thinking about that, though. Draco was working on starting his own little flow of fortune, which had begun when both Potter and himself had been prevented from entering. He'd been friendly with Krum, but not too friendly. It wouldn't do to seem sycophantic. Viktor's name was announced first, and having expected it Draco was able to make the perfect expression; admiring, approving, and unsurprised. He clapped as Krum went into the next room, but not over-enthusiastically. The first rule of establishing oneself as a peer was acting as if you expected to be one.

The Beauxbatons champion was some part-veela girl. Father had told him about them, and prepared him for the effect. One did encounter part-veela at upper-society functions, and it does not do to drool in one's soup course. She was undeniably attractive, though. Graceful, her skirt belling out from her slim legs like the petals of a flower. Draco was picturing flowers in that shade of blue and how the light would come through the petals when he realized he was falling into it again. Fortunately, the girl soon passed the table and followed Krum through the side door.

Finally, the Goblet spit out the name of the Hogwarts champion. Cedric Diggory. Draco should have been disappointed that it wasn't a Slytherin, but actually he thought this was for the best. A Slytherin champion would have been competition. He was pleased that it wasn't a Gryffindor, of course. Angelina Johnson, the Gryffindor chaser, had put her name in – how delicious for her to lose to a pretty face like Diggory. In any case, it was best to support one's own school, and a Hufflepuff champion was unobjectionable. Draco had turned to Crabbe to make a remark about Gryffindor's sad showing when the unthinkable happened; the Goblet spit forth a fourth slip of paper.

Well, obviously. Draco was sure of it before Dumbledore even read out the name. Who could it be but Harry Potter? Father would certainly be speaking with him about this. How Draco could possibly have predicted that Potter would circumvent Dumbledore _and_ the Ministry of Magic to grasp at ever greater glory, well, that was immaterial. The git had managed to find a way into the spotlight once again when it should have been completely impossible. Father would never let him hear the end of it. Draco could already hear his cold voice: "Being beaten by Potter to the snitch clearly wasn't sufficient for you, was it, Draco? I see you must find ways to humiliate me in the off-season as well. If you put half the energy into achievement as you do into disappointing me, you would be Minister of Magic by now."

Draco put the voice to the back of his mind. It seemed that Potter got where he was by flouting the most obvious rules in existence. When you get hit with the killing curse, you die. When Dumbledore draws an Age Line, you can't cross it. Don't make friends with Weasleys. The more basic it was, the more easily he seemed to ignore it. Maybe the secret was as simple as that, as simple as the thing Granger already knew – ignore the lines as they're drawn, and move as you please.

Of course, Draco couldn't just allow the Boy Who Cheated to get away with it. He and Pansy and Crabboyle were sitting in the common room one day, discussing the unfairness of it all. As far as they were concerned, Hogwarts had one champion, and that champion was Cedric Diggory.

"We could wear Hufflepuff colors in support," said Crabbe.

"Don't be ridiculous," answered Pansy. "You know what yellow does to my complexion." Draco privately thought that Pansy was overestimating the power of yellow to do any further damage, but he maintained a scornful silence.

"Badger hats?" suggested Goyle.

"That's even worse than yellow robes," said Draco. "Anyway, it has to be anti-Plotter, not just pro-Cedric." He shifted in his seat, lounging against the arm of the chair. As he moved, something in his pocket dug into the side of his leg. Draco stuck his hand in to remove it, and his fingers closed around something smooth and disc-shaped. He caught himself before he could bring it into view. Hermione's badge, the one he'd taken in the library.

Brilliant. Badges would be just the thing. Draco went up to the boys dormitory, knowing no one would be about at this hour. Drawing the curtains around his bed, he pulled the badge out of his pocket. He spent some time working out the proper lettering and color scheme. A dark background, with glowing letters. Red – very eye-catching. It was important to play up the school loyalty aspect; otherwise, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws might not want to wear it. 'Support Cedric Diggory,' then. No – 'Support Cedric Diggory, the real Hogwarts Champion.' Yes, perfect. But the emphasis on _real_ wasn't direct enough. Draco understood enough about propaganda to know that even imbeciles like Grabbe and Coyle had to understand it for it to be successful.

Another phrase on the badge would crowd the design, though. Hm. Maybe a simple Transformation spell, one that even the first-years would be able to trigger. Yes, a second message, this time in Slytherin colors so the Human Scar would know exactly where it had come from. Draco's eyes lit up as he began the Transfiguration spell, improving Granger's dingy badge immeasurably. Once he was satisfied with the result he replicated the new badge and strode back down to the common room.

Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle were still discussing possibilities.

"We could dye the school owls black and yellow," said Goyle.

"They're charmed to resist spell-casting," replied Pansy. "How else could they deliver the mail securely? Anyway, we'd still be missing the anti-Potter part."

"Black and yellow owls with 'Harry Potter is a stupid cheater' on their wings?" ventured Crabbe.

"I told you," Pansy began, enunciating very clearly, "mail owls are charmed to resist..."

"What do you think of this, Pansy?" interrupted Draco, handing her a badge. "Put these on," he added, giving another two to Crabbe and Goyle. Pansy was assessing hers carefully. Draco knew she was partial to red, which was part of why he'd chosen the colour. She wouldn't wear it at school, obviously, far too Gryffindor, but he knew she'd like to have the chance.

She smiled, briefly looking disconcertingly like an overheated pug, and pinned it on.

"It's lovely, Draco," she said.

"You haven't seen the best part!" he replied, reaching out to lightly press the badge on her chest. Pansy had to be approached very delicately, just the right amount of flirtation. Never enough to produce expectation, always enough to keep up her hopes. Her affection for him was too useful to be discarded, even if he had no intention of ever returning it. She lit up, as he'd known she would, looking down at his fingers and then the new message on the badge.

"Potter stinks!" crowed Crabbe.

Excellent, thought Draco. The target audience is responding favourably.

Hermione was pondering possible wording changes in the S.P.E.W. manifesto as she discussed their Charms lesson with Harry on the way to Double Potions. Her friend was feeling especially dark recently, what with the worries about Sirius and the stress of the Championship. She tried to keep his spirits up, especially since his rift with Ron didn't seem to be healing. It was something of a novelty, actually, for Hermione to have something to turn over and over in her mind that didn't involve Harry's problems. She was mentally listing synonyms for 'egregious' and nodding sympathetically at Harry as they arrived at the dungeon. All the Slytherins were clustered around the door like a herd of gangly, pimply buzzards. Wearing badges. Hermione shook her head. That was clearly the secret, with S.P.E.W. – she just needed to make hers a bit flashier and use them to bully someone, and they'd be all over the school.

"Oh, very funny," she said to Pansy, whose looks were actually slightly improved by the red lettering near her face. "Really witty."

Next to her Malfoy was preening over his badge, showing off for Harry. Ron, the sour git, was just watching the show without standing up for his friend. Honestly, boys were so immature. Hermione understood that Ron was hurt, but this was not the time for him to be nursing a grudge. Loyalty and friendship required something more of him. Whoever said that women were the irrational ones had certainly never met any of the boys of her acquaintance. She was looking at him disapprovingly as he leaned against the wall behind Malfoy when the blond boy intercepted her glance and turned his attention to her.

"Want one, Granger?" he said. "I've got loads. But don't touch my hand, now. I've just washed it, you see; don't want a Mudblood sliming it up." Hermione had opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind when Harry took matters (or more accurately, his wand) into his own hands.

"Harry!" she warned, but he ignored her, and when Malfoy taunted him again the two idiots actually tried to hex each other. _Right before class_; it was madness. She had only a split second to ponder their foolishness, though, because Malfoy's spell struck her straight in the face. She put her hands to her mouth in horror, feeling an unmistakable swelling in the vicinity of her front teeth. Pansy, the cow, was already snickering. She tried to cover them, but they continued to lengthen behind her concealing hands.

"Hermione!" shouted Ron, finally breaking away from the wall and rushing toward her. She was briefly gratified by his concern until she realized that he was pulling at one of her hands, trying to see what was wrong. Just as he succeeded in getting a look at her teeth, which were extending down her chin, Professor Snape arrived for the lesson. Goyle had been hit by the other ricocheting spell and was immediately sent to the hospital wing, but the Head of Slytherin House couldn't resist a sarcastic comment for the stricken Gryffindor. Tears of rage sprang to Hermione's eyes. 'No difference'? Her teeth had grown past her collar! Unwilling to show the professor how much he'd gotten to her, she abandoned class and ran for the hospital wing without permission. She didn't notice that Draco Malfoy was looking after her with something oddly akin to regret.

Things improved after Harry successfully completed the dragon challenge. Ron discovered an unprecedented ability to see things that were right in front of his face, and finally accepted Harry's assertion that he hadn't _wanted_ to enter the tournament. It was nice to have her friends back again. Hermione hated being put in the middle of things, and besides, it had been affecting her schoolwork. Of course there was still the problem of the egg to work out, but the three of them had never yet failed to solve a problem as long as they worked together. 

Viktor Krum was acting strangely. He wasn't the most talkative of boys, which Draco appreciated because he was more than capable of keeping up a pleasant flow of conversation. But Krum was not paying as much attention to him as usual, and his eyes were moving in a familiar direction. Draco knew it well, even though he was infinitely more practiced at concealing his glances. He could hear Granger even from here, laughing at something one of her friends had said. Funny, how well he seemed to know that laugh. The look on Krum's face was a bit out of place, almost... shy. It _couldn't_ be.

Viktor Krum, pure-blood, Quidditch superstar, and Triwizard champion, was interested in Hermione Granger.

Something deep in Draco cracked open, and he almost lost control of his facial expression. Krum didn't seem to care that she was Muggle-born. Father had always said that a Durmstrang education was the best for pure-bloods, away from the corrupting influence of the lower classes. ("Corrupting influence" was here understood as "any form of friendly association with Mudbloods.") But Krum, this paragon of the school, apparently hadn't been informed of the rule.

Well, Draco wasn't having it. He would show all of them – Potty, Krum, and everyone else who skipped over the boundaries without consequence. He'd seen Hermione first, hadn't he? They'd been together in school for years. (Draco conveniently failed to ponder how this might better be seen as a disadvantage.) She was smart, that much was clear. The best in their class, in fact, and Draco had been brought up to expect the finer things in life.

He chanced a quick look at the Gryffindor table and she was laughing again, her head arched back, hair flying, even her exposed teeth somehow rather charming.

Draco looked back at Krum. His years in Slytherin, analyzing motivations, had trained him well – the boy was still far too shy to have acted on it, but he wanted her. Well, that meant he had a little time. He'd invite Hermione Granger to the ball, soaring over the boundaries as she and Potter and Krum already did. And she would accept him.

... well, he'd have to work on that part.


	3. 3 Flowers and Flames

He couldn't just come out and ask her, obviously. Draco might have decided to break the rules, but he had no delusions about violating the laws of nature. He'd have to work up to it. He reached up to stroke her badge on his chest, pinned as usual over his heart. The red letters swirled and flared green under his fingers. Snape gave him a level glance and a slight nod of his head, indicating that he was aware of Draco's inattention but not going to chastise him for it.

Potions class was a nice place to think. The work was usually simple and repetitive, chopping ingredients or counting the number of clockwise stirs. Perfect for planning. Draco turned slightly in his seat so Potter could see the badge and gave him a smirk. He couldn't wait to see those buggy eyes when Draco walked into the ball with his best friend on his arm: proof, at last, that there was nothing worth having that was out of Draco's reach.

He bent again to his work, his fingers flying over the mandrake leaves he was slicing. Granger was smart, and she hated him. He'd have to appeal to her intelligence and win her respect to convince her to accept his invitation; but it would probably be best if he softened her first, piqued her curiosity and drew her in a bit before letting her know who he was. So... something impressive, anonymous, and seen only by her. Draco finished with his mandrake leaves and moved on to the next ingredient, which horrifyingly enough was Bubotuber pus. Draco carefully measured it out and added it to his cauldron, still mulling the problem. Something just for her. Something only she would find...

Hermione was determined to be a credit to Hogwarts, especially while the students from other schools were visiting, so she'd upped her hours in the library. Just a little bit, and it wasn't really even noticeable to Harry and Ron, since she'd already been nicking out early from supper for S.P.E.W. research anyway. The thought of S.P.E.W. made her shake her head. It was unexpectedly slow to get off the ground. Other than her two best friends, getting anyone to pay their two sickles had been hard enough, and she still hadn't seen anyone but herself wearing a badge. None of the girls had time to talk about anything but the upcoming ball, anyway. It drove Hermione mad, and spending time with Ron and Harry was no better. Ron was being incredibly thick about the whole thing, somehow managing to talk _about_ girls without realizing he was talking _to_ one. The library was her natural refuge.

She treasured the moments of quiet when she could really focus, with the words dancing before her eyes and filling her head with visions. Hermione was still occasionally surprised that magic existed in the world. Well, that wasn't exactly it; she was quite comfortable around magic and in the wizarding world, but she remained a person who fundamentally came from somewhere else. It was as if she'd moved to a foreign country. Of course, she had adapted. But there were still moments, sometimes, when the experiences of the last four years seemed to fall away and she was once again the wide eyed child staring at a letter that ended life as she'd known it.

These fleeting feelings were simultaneously disconcerting and delightful. They made the world seem magical again, truly magical, not like lessons and spells and charms practice but utterly mysterious and unknown. That was the delightful bit. The disconcerting part came in because each time that wave of awe crashed over her, it reinforced the fact that Hermione was a traveller in the wizarding world. She might live there, but it hadn't truly become home. She wondered whether Harry ever felt the same. But his parents had both been magical; James Potter was even a pure-blood. Harry couldn't doubt that he was wholly of this world.

It wasn't fair. She'd really left the Muggle world behind – she'd be likelier to cut off her wand hand than try to live without magic – but Hermione was still stuck between the two places, teetering, unable to fully come to rest on the other side. Her voracious appetite for learning served her well. She accumulated knowledge like an extremely well-organized magpie, building up walls of understanding, laying a foundation of facts, making an intellectual dwelling which might at last provide her with a home.

Hermione arrived at her table, the one where she always sat when she went to the library after supper, next to a large window looking out toward the lake. Being in the Magical Creatures section, it wasn't an especially busy place, so she always had enough room to spread out all her study materials. Hermione set down her book bag with a sigh and put one hand on the table so she could throw her leg over the bench to sit, and that was when she noticed it.

Standing in a thin glass vase, on her table. A flower. It looked like a large tulip, with a black tufted center and a cluster of thin-veined petals as translucent as glassine or wet silk. Light from the window came through them and made the veins glow, but the petals were black. Hermione knew quite well that there was no such thing as a black tulip. She leaned toward the flower, careful not to touch it, looking at the pattern of the veins in the light. As she leaned in, her breath disturbed the fragile flower and it rippled slightly. Suddenly the random pattern of light in the petals wasn't random at all. Woven into the structure of the flower was a short line of script, tangled in the network of fine lines that glowed in the last of the sunset through the window.

_You're beautiful._

Hermione gasped and for one instant forgot what she was doing, reaching out to touch the flower. Under her hands it rippled once again, like a wave breaking across the surface. When she lifted her fingers the writing was gone, and the flower in the vase was a brilliant red. She looked quickly around her, hoping to see who had left it, but the library was empty. She couldn't even hear the tapping of Madame Pince's heels pacing up and down the stacks in the restricted section.

Professor Flitwick had set them a particularly troublesome assignment for Charms, and Hermione was determined to make a good showing. She had a bit of free time before curfew, so she went to ask the librarian for permission to look at some of the older books on the subject. Hermione hurried along the dark corridor toward the library, slipping from one torchlit circle of light to the next. The flames danced a bit as she passed, throwing shadows and glints of unexpected light on the opposite wall.

That was odd. The next torch in the line, four away from the library door, wasn't flickering at all. It burned straight up, holding itself as steady as a soldier at attention. She slowed her steps, watching, and as she passed it the flame drew itself together and bowed to her. When it straightened again it had transformed into a perfectly formed figure about seven inches tall, which gave her an oddly familiar smile and threw its left hand back toward the wall. As she looked in that direction a series of words unfurled from its fingers against the stones, fire without ash, shining in the dark.

_You're brilliant._

The letters flared, then whirled around themselves in a glorious arabesque before wrapping around the little figure like a cloak. It bowed again, and as it straightened it became less distinct, the sharp lines of its face and body melting into the flame as the torch returned to normal. Hermione cast her gaze up and down the empty hallway, listening for footsteps, but there was nothing. Looking once more behind her, Hermione continued to the library. She paid close attention to the faces once she was inside. Neville and Dean were at one table, looking up something for Transfiguration, but both of them acted normally when she quietly told them hello. Draco Malfoy was at a table in Charms, sitting with his feet up on another chair as Pansy Parkinson gazed at him from the other side of the table. He was reading a book that remarkably didn't look like anything the teachers had assigned them, and he was resolutely not looking up. Well, he might be a foul weasel, but she supposed she'd do the same if Pansy got that hawkish look on her face when looking at Hermione.

She continued to her normal place. After she had her papers all arranged, she went to get a book on the influence of weather on Transfiguration, hoping that Dean and Neville hadn't already taken it. On her way back to her desk, she saw Viktor Krum sneak a glance at her as he walked out of the library. He seemed to be trying not to attract any notice. How odd. Hermione had heard that the visiting students were occasionally sitting in on lessons, and she assumed that they were still studying with their Headmasters, but she'd have thought their teachers would have brought their own books. Each of the visiting schools had some stylistic differences in magic and tended to be quite pedantic about maintaining them. Encouraging their students to use the Hogwarts library seemed out of character, especially for Professor Karkaroff. Hermione, who had been somewhat impressed by Krum's skill at Quidditch, felt her respect for him increase. She'd do the same, if she got a crack at another school's library. Even if the teachers discouraged it, she'd find a way to get in anyway. 

Harry said he was working on his next task, but Hermione knew him well enough to know that he hadn't found anything and didn't even know where to start. She had some theories about the egg shape of the prize he'd won from the dragon, and she thought she'd look into it for him before bringing her results to his attention. Harry would take help, usually, but he didn't tend to push for it like Ron. Anyway, his success with the dragon hadn't helped his confidence as much as she'd hoped, and she didn't want to get his hopes up if her theory came to nothing. The next task was coming fast, and there wasn't any time to waste.

Unfortunately, after two hours spent poring over texts on magical creatures, she hadn't found any references to an egg that made any sense. The phoenix would have been obvious, and they'd already tried fire on it. Nothing else fit the engraved markings on the egg (she'd made a rubbing of it, so she was sure). Discouraged, Hermione put her chin on her hand and looked out the window to get a glimpse of the lake, but it was raining and she couldn't see much. She leaned toward the glass, smiling and trying to get a glimpse of her newly reduced teeth. She ought to thank that prat Draco Malfoy for giving her the excuse to go against her parents' wishes and use magic to make them smaller. The thought of his likely reaction if she did amused her but didn't occupy her attention for long, because the way the rain was running against the window was decidedly odd. Instead of slipping down in rivulets, as it ought, it flowed together in arches and parallel lines. In fact, it appeared to be running _up_ in some places.

There seemed to be a pattern. Hermione leaned back in her chair and looked at the whole window, taking it in. The water was flowing against the glass in long looping lines, and suddenly it was there, almost as clearly as if someone had etched the words on the glass.

_Your friends and I may not be on the same side, but I hope you'll agree to be at mine._

Whatever could that mean, "not on the same side"? It was clearly a message from the same person who had left her the first two. Hermione tried to think of rivals for Harry and Ron. There weren't any, not really, but something about the thought was puzzling. The second part was equally mysterious. Not 'on mine,' but '_at_ mine.' She was working it out, turning it over in her mind, when she was interrupted by someone softly clearing his throat behind her.

She whipped her head around, away from the window, which was back to the usual lacy rain pattern anyway. Behind her stood Viktor Krum, who was looking even more nervous than he had the other day in the library after she'd found the torch messenger. Hermione's mind whirled as she put it all together. The flower had appeared after the visiting students arrived, and...

"I vas hoping," Viktor began, then cleared his throat again. "I vas hoping," he repeated, stronger this time, "that you vould do me the honor of coming together vith me to the Yule ball."

For one instant Ron's face ran through her mind. She'd hoped it was him, when she first found the flower, but had given up the fantasy. Ron's skill in charms was nowhere near good enough, and if it had been him he would have simply handed it to her, proud of his fine work and wanting her approval. She should have known it was an older student from the beginning. Well, Ron had had his chance and Viktor was still waiting, looking incredibly awkward. Hermione couldn't deny that the effort he had made to ask her was flattering.

"I'd love to," she said warmly, making her decision. "Thank you for the invitation."


	4. 4 Fairy Lights

Hidden behind his bookshelf, Draco ran his hand over his eyes. He couldn't believe it. After all that work (something which did not come naturally to him) she had rejected him and said yes to Krum. He'd somehow convinced himself she wasn't the sort to be beguiled by his fame, but when you thought about it, she _had_ managed to attach herself to Potter first year. What a waste of effort – his time would have been better spent trying to make Pansy presentable (a modified Polyjuice perhaps). He'd been so sure that Hermione would respond to the gifts he'd made her, especially the flower, which was both a true work of art and (in his humble opinion) romantic enough to charm a Dementor. Draco waited until their voices faded before starting back to the dungeons, trying to convince himself that the painful disappointment rushing through him was only because it was too late now to ask anyone but Pansy.

Hermione didn't tell either of her best friends about her date to the Yule Ball. If they'd been girls it would have been easy to bring it up, but Harry had other things to think about and Ron didn't deserve to know. She told Ginny, because she had to tell _someone_ and Ginny had promised to keep the secret. The younger girl was impressed by the romantic invitation, even more impressed than she was by the fact that it was Viktor Krum doing the inviting. And even after Ron finally half-asked Hermione to the ball (in the most ham-handed way imaginable), his sister held her peace. There was a reason she liked Ginny.

Ron wouldn't give it up, though. The boy might have had a head for strategy in chess, but in all other areas he was useless. Did he really think that just blurting out the question at random would somehow cause her to forget that she'd decided not to tell him? Ron's problem was that he judged everyone else by his own standards – the tactic most likely would have worked on him. She'd have to keep that in mind the next time he had a secret.

At last the day of the ball arrived. Ginny helped Hermione with her hair, bless her, and she was actually quite pleased with how she looked – elegant and pretty, but not too showy. She smiled happily at the mirror and went to meet Viktor, who'd invited her to take a look inside the Durmstrang ship before the ball. That actually worked out well: she preferred it to waiting for him to come collect her at Gryffindor Tower, and she'd have been mad to turn down an opportunity to see Durmstrang magic on a large scale.

They didn't stay long – Hermione got the impression that Professor Karkaroff was less than pleased to have her there. Krum was still quite shy with her so they didn't talk much. He showed her the common room, where the students also gathered for lessons. It was well done, just large enough and retaining a ship-like character, with smooth wooden seating built in around the sides and small round windows. A bit cold, though. It was obvious that the students wore their fur coats for practical reasons as well as traditional ones. When the tour was finished, Viktor offered her his arm for the short walk back to the castle, chivalrously maintaining a warming charm for her. She could do it herself of course, and had done so on the way down to the ship, but she enjoyed the novelty of a boy who behaved like a gentleman.

***

Once the being-stared-at part was over, the Yule Ball was a great deal of fun. To be honest the staring part was just a bit entertaining, especially the flummoxed look on everyone's faces. Hermione even flashed Malfoy her new smile as ironic thanks for his unintentional help with her appearance. It was satisfying when even he couldn't come up with anything cutting to say. He was either losing his touch or Professor Moody really _was_ behind him this time. Or perhaps the combination of Christmas and dress robes could teach manners, even to a twitchy little ferret.

She enjoyed the feast for the most part, especially since Viktor seemed to have gotten over the bulk of his shyness and was describing the beauty of nature around his school. It sounded majestic but a bit austere, especially for someone who didn't particularly enjoy flying. Professor Karkaroff was the only sour note, and when the tables were cleared away Hermione was pleased to get away from him. The music began and Viktor made her a sharp bow, clicking his heels like a soldier. She put her hand in his and he pulled her into the dance, a strong lead but a surprisingly stiff one. She would have expected more grace from him, given how he flew, but he was skilled enough for her to enjoy the movement. She relaxed in his arms and they slipped naturally in to the dances that Professor McGonagall had taught them.

***

When Viktor found her again, after the row with Ron, he handed her one of the two glasses he was carrying. "Is everything all right?" he asked, taking note of her face, which she could feel was still a bit flushed with anger.

"Oh, it's just my friends," answered Hermione. "I don't agree with you, you know, that you're not on the same side as Harry. It's only a friendly competition. And I'm not really friends with Cedric anyway. But Ron was trying to make it out like I shouldn't have come with you."

Victor's face shifted from concerned to completely surprised. "But he is missing the whole point of the Tournament. Ve vill all do our best to vin, of course, but it gives us the chance to meet students from other schools. The magical vorld needs more connections, or ve vill be again vulnerable to vizards like Grindelvald. But who is this 'Ron'?" he continued, beginning to scowl.

"Oh, just a friend. I think he's mostly jealous I got to spend time with you," Hermione appeased, covering her surprise. "He's a huge fan of yours, actually."

Viktor seemed to accept this explanation and the two of them turned their attention to their drinks, but Hermione's brain was spinning. Krum didn't seem to know anything about the message on the window. He didn't even think like that at all. Could she have made such a mistake? And if _he_ hadn't sent those messages, who had?

***

The ball was winding down, only a few couples left on the floor, and Viktor very politely walked her to the stairs and bid her good night. She kissed him on the cheek, thanked him for the evening, and started up toward the Tower. The whole night had been utterly incomprehensible. Tomorrow she'd have to go over the last few weeks carefully and think about everything, but right now she was tired and ready to take the pins out of her hair. Lost in these thoughts, Hermione didn't see Draco Malfoy standing in the shadows on the landing until she was right next to him.

Some of her thoughts must have showed on her face, because he greeted her with "Evening not everything you were expecting?"

Hermione practically leaped off the staircase in surprise. "Malfoy, what are you doing lurking about? Don't you have a dog in a frilly pink dress to walk?"

He gave her a mocking bow, graceful, and as he bent forward his platinum hair caught the light and flared like a candle flame. Something about the movement was incredibly familiar. As he straightened he smirked at her.

"I suppose I was wrong to hope that a pretty dress could do anything about your manners," he replied. He flung his arm to the side, gesturing her past him up the staircase, and with that movement she saw it all as clearly as rain-letters on glass.

"It was you!" she gasped, staring at him wide-eyed. "_You_ left me those messages!"

Now it was Draco's turn to be surprised. Her shock caught him off guard, and he answered without calculating. "Well who did you _think_ it was?" Her quick glance down the stairs told him everything. "You couldn't have thought it was Krum. The man has the romantic soul of a Blast-Ended Skrewt."

Hermione gave a horrified laugh, knowing this wasn't fair but too amazed to contradict him. "But why? Was it some kind of practical joke?" His expression shifted from mild amusement into something else, and she instantly knew that it hadn't been. So he'd intended... he'd meant to... the end of the last message flashed through her mind. _I hope you will agree to be at mine._

"Were you planning to ask me to the ball?"

"It hardly matters now, does it?"

"Of course it does. That's what you meant, in the last message, isn't it? But I thought... Viktor came and asked me right after I'd read it. I had no way of knowing it was you."

Draco smiled sardonically. "I didn't think it was possible to overestimate your intelligence, but I'm proud to have accomplished it."

"That is the silliest... you prat, Salazar Slytherin himself wouldn't have figured it out! How could I possibly have imagined it would be you? You're horrible to me."

"That's mostly true," Draco replied, still smiling. "Although I did save your life once, and that should count for something. What would you have answered, _if_ I had asked?"

Hermione shook her head. This evening had really been too much. "Malfoy, you're going to have to learn to ask a straight question if you want an answer from me."

His face sobered and he looked at her for a long moment, his expression unexpectedly vulnerable. Then he cocked his head down the stairs and held his arm out to her. "I think there's still time for a dance, if you'd care to join me." Hermione was shocked he'd had the courage to actually say it. He looked a bit disbelieving himself. She found herself laying her hand on his arm, surprised once again by the sweetness of the smile that flickered across his face at her touch.

When they reached the entry she started to turn into the Great Hall, but he pulled her gently the other way, toward the front doors. "The warming charm should still be in effect outside," he said in response to her startled look. "I can see the fairy lights."

Draco and Hermione walked together into the rose garden, and just as he'd said, it was still full of fairies. They'd been indulging heavily in wormwood nectar all evening, so most were passed out on top of the rose bushes and blinking irregularly. A scant few fluttered drunkenly overhead. They could faintly hear the music from the Great Hall, and Draco gave her that fluid bow once again then offered her his hand. Hermione stepped into his arms and they began to dance.

It was easier than it had been with Krum despite the surreal nature of the whole experience. Hermione supposed that Narcissa had insisted on lessons, because there was no stiffness in Draco at all. As they moved it began to snow, the crystals bright pinpricks of cold where they settled on her warm skin. Overwhelmed by the beauty of where she was and the strangeness of who she was with, Hermione could sense that two-edged feeling of Muggle-born awe creeping up within her, exhilarating and isolating. Wondering what Draco was thinking she glanced up at the pure-blood boy, finding him already looking down at her face.

"Sometimes the world is so magical I can't really believe I'm a part of it," she blurted, immediately flushing with embarrassment at her frankness. Of all the stupid, gauche things to say to a wizard with his family history.

Draco let one hand go and briefly brushed his fingers against her reddened cheek. He pulled her a little closer and continued to dance, and she'd almost managed to forget what she'd said when he finally answered.

"I know exactly what you mean."


End file.
